Fate: An SLC Punk! OneShot
by kweenofalldreams13
Summary: Stevo writes his final goodbyes to Heroin Bob in one last angry-loving-punk-mod-acid-clean letter. Rated for language.


**Disclaimer: **Yeah, I don't own SLC Punk!, so don't sue, kay?

**Note:** Reviews are always appreciated, you know :) It's supposed to be sad, so that's what this is, really. A goodbye from Stevo Levy to his best friend Heroin Bob. Thanks for reading :)

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**Fate**

To the being formerly known as "Heroin Bob":

Well, you've finally done it, you goddamn asshole. You fucking died on me, of fucking overdose on fucking percodan. I know everybody figures punks are gonna die young, but none of us figured the first (well, second, if you count Chris and Jennifer's cousin Bobby on account of alcohol poisoning, but none of us really do–I mean, who gave a shit about Bobby except for Chris and Jennifer? We only ever met the bastard once) would be Heroin Bob, the purest fucking punk in Salt Lake Shitty.

You're a real fucking asshole, you know that, right? You weren't supposed to die. Now, don't go thinking I'm one of those fate people, but anybody could tell that you, of all people, weren't supposed to die. And that's why you're an asshole, Bob. Because you fucking left. You know what Trish is up to? NOTHING. FUCKING NOTHING. She just sits in her goddamned corner and stares at the fucking wall. You know what, I think she loved you back. You were the damn cleanest punk in fucking Salt Lake, that's part of the reason she loved you. You were fucking purer than the rest of us, sixty trillion times purer than me or fucking Sandy or fucking Sean. I still remember every word of your fucking conversation with that asshole.

"JESUS! Have I sinned or am I goin' to heaven?"

"You're fryin', man, how much acid did you take?"

"Wait, you're not Jesus...you're Bob."

"I'm Bob! How goes it?"

And how he thought that you were walking on water and all that shit, and how he thought Satan was in his house, and had turned his mom into a bull or whatever the hell it was. And how the fucking idiot got snatched by the cops, then turned into this fucking beggar. I never told you this, but when we met him on the street, I got this really ugly feeling in my gut. When I saw him, I could tell he wasn't going anywhere. No, that isn't right, I knew that he was going real bad places, that he was gonna be dead before he was clean, and that he was gonna be a fucking failure in life before he was dead. Hell, he probably died before you did, with his head all fucked over by that acid.

I still remember how you looked when I found out you were dead. You were pale as hell. Your eyes were open. Your lips were all blue. And now you're gone. I can't blame John's girlfriend, no matter how stupid her percodan fucking was, no matter how insistent she was on giving you that shit and how much she gave you, I can't blame her. I can't really blame anybody. You just...died. It just happened. I guess that just happens to people. I mean, I'm not even close to being ready to accept the fact, but I can tell you're not here anymore.

The thing is, just let me say, I wouldn't have been surprised if you fucking jumped out of the coffin and screamed, "GOTCHA, FUCKERS!" You're just that kind of a twisted fucker, that you'd do that. You were the weirdest fucker I've ever met. Your little rants about Napoleon and arsenic and how you would punch the mirrors and shit. You were a real twisted fucker, you know that? Maybe not as twisted as Sean, or Sandy, or Trish, or Mike, but you were real twisted.

What was it, Bob? What was it that made you have it in for me? Was it because I was your best friend? Was it because you were my _only_ friend? 'Cause I called you a poser? 'Cause you fell in fucking love? Trish told me that you guys would just sit there and talk sometimes, and you'd tell her how much you thought about life and how you fucking knew we were all going nowhere. But she said that, well, what do you know, the only reason you stayed punk was fucking because of me. She said she wouldn't have given a shit if we stopped being punk, if we decided to actually look at the world, and be something that mattered instead of just stupid fucking kid punks, she'd be okay with it.

And at this point, this is where you'd probably get pissed at me. You know how my dad applied me for Harvard, and how I fucking got in, who the hell knows how? Well...I guess I'm going now. I shaved my head, man, 'cause they don't let in fuckers with blue hair. I can't believe it myself, man. Maybe I'm selling out, maybe I'm not. I don't give a shit. It's something to fucking do, so maybe I won't end up dead or crazy or whatever the fuck I would be if I didn't have Brandy or Harvard, if I didn't have something to do.

See, us, Bob, we were the ones we were kidding. Anarchy, anarchy, anarchy, it was our life. And what does it matter anymore? Now that you're fucking dead and I'm going to Harvard? I'm becoming my father. The only people who really think I'm not doing the wrong fucking thing are Dad, Brandy, and Trish. Everybody else figures I'm selling out. And I guess they're right. I am fucking selling out. I'm becoming everything I ever wanted to hate, man, and if it wasn't for you, I probably wouldn't be here right now. Sure, fuck, we'd figure it out in the future, but when we were fat old fucks who still had the blue hair and the mohawks with no jobs and ran after the mods we saw on the street with shotguns. I'm not saying that things would be better if you weren't here, but I'm also not saying things would be better if you were.

Maybe this was my fucking wake up call, or whatever the hell they call it. Maybe you dying, maybe it was supposed to happen or something. I'm still not saying I believe in all that fate bullshit, but maybe I needed this to happen. Call me a fucking pussy, hell, call me a fucking mod, because maybe that's what I've become, but now I'm listening to stuff that has never been and will never be punk. I'm listening to the fucking Beatles. And you know what they're telling me? They're telling me to _let it be_. Well how the fuck can I let it be when I'm just a crazy kid who's going nowhere, huh?

I'm going to Harvard, man. I'm going to Harvard, I'm gonna marry Brandy, I'm gonna become a lawyer. I'm gonna have kids, man, and then they're gonna end up as fucked up and as twisted as me.

Shit, man, do you remember the first time we met Trish, at Sean's first punk party? I bet you fucking fell in love with her right then and there.

_"Stevo!" you screamed, your eyes wide and your face paler than usual when you ran into me, all sweating and with a bottle of Jack in your hand. I dragged off my cigarette, flicking the ashes into the bottle and smirking. _God, I'm an asshole_, I thought. "Stevo, you know that chick, that fucking chick who owns the bong shop? Trish, Trish fucking Cahill?"_

_"Yeah, what about Trish fucking Cahill?" I asked you, and you slammed your bottle down onto the nearest table, so you could wave your hands around like some kind of maniac._

_"I fucking met her, man, I met her, she met me. We were talking about the flaws of creation, you know, the problems with fucking man? She's got this intellect, man, she knows the score. God, shit, Stevo, she's this genius or something. Have you ever just looked into her eyes? Have you ever just looked into her eyes and seen her eyes, Stevo?" you were saying, and I rolled my eyes at you, you crazy goddamn fucker._

_"No, I haven't just looked into her eyes, Bob, 'cause I'm not a creepy little shit like you. God, are you fucking stalking her or something?" His face flushed a little bit, but he gave me that usual cynical look I was so fucking used to from him._

_"Hey, fuck you, man, she's amazing," you told me, and for a second, I thought maybe you were gonna hit me. I just snorted, pinching out the butt of my cigarette and extracting a bag of weed from my pocket, rolling up myself a joint and lighting it._

_"Shit, Bob, you just met her, you idiot. You're stalking her, man, and that's just creepy, man." You just scoffed at me, so hey, I flipped you the bird._

_"Fuck you, man, she's great," you told me, making sure I knew, so I pretended I did and kept on smoking my pot. Then you turned purple and gold and sparkly and I waved you off, moving on to the next potential victim of my sarcasm._

And then you guys fell in love, huh? That's just how it goes, I guess. You know what, man, fuck it, I guess I do believe in fate. I know all this was meant to happen, and it just did, didn't it? Fate, you fucking son of a bitch, fate is what took you away from me. I mean, maybe sometimes I just think I'm saying it's fate's fault so I don't think it's anybody else's. Maybe I'm just saying it's because of fate because I don't wanna think it's because of me. It probably was because of me, wasn't it, Bob? It was because of me.

And you know what, Bob, I don't give a fuck about fate or whether or not all this bullshit was my fault, because guess what, Bob? I would have done it all over again. I loved you, man, and now that you're gone, I don't even fucking regret anything. Nothing, man, nothing. Not fucking Sandy, not going to the party, not going to Harvard, not turning anarchy into capitalism, nothing.

I fucking loved you, man. Fuck fate.

Your best friend,

Stevo Levy

PS I guess you found your place to walk on water, huh, buddy?


End file.
